Empty Moments
by The Smiling Shadow
Summary: Norman Bates and his Mother are dying within the walls of their institution. Only one of them can survive, but Norman can't fight his Mother off on his own.


Blood drips from his fingertips, staining the sterile floors. He limps onward, every step the result of all his efforts and strength. He does not know where he is, but confusion has become familiar to him, he is not alarmed. All he knows is that he must keep moving, that he cannot stay there, he must escape. So, even as every step hurts, even as he feels his blood drain from him and onto the floor, he presses forward.

The bathroom light seeps through from beneath the closed door. It is his guiding light in the dark. He can hear the water from the shower.

He can hear yelling, but he doesn't know the words. He tries to move faster, understanding that they are coming for him. But each step breaks his bones a little more, and there's so much blood he's left on the floor. If he had time, he knows, if he had time he could make it. It is cold and dark outside, no one would see him. There are no birds here.

Like the cellar, where there was no light. The desert sun beats down on him, nothing but weeds. Nothing but dust. Peeling paint. She scrapes her fingers on his spine. That was the day his heart broke in two.

Oh, God, Mother, blood.

He left them a trail of blood to find him with. It isn't long before they are there, walking a few feet behind him. Norman, they say, in their careless way, Norman, come with us. Do you know where you are, Norman? We are here to help you. They get closer, he knows they will take him. Get away from me, he yells as loud as he can. I don't need your help, his voice cracks. They get too close, he fights them off, get away, he yells at them. I don't need your help. Leave me alone. He keeps on yelling, but he can't hear his own words.

He falls to his knees when he realizes he has tears in his eyes. How long has he been crying for? He holds up his arm, weakly trying to make them stop. He's nothing but blood and tears now, screaming into the dark at the strangers he knows. Before he knows it he's on the floor, and they're scrambling on top of him. He's kicking and he's screaming for them to stop, begging for them to let him go and die out in the dark and the cold.

He doesn't remember the trial, or how his attorneys fought so very hard to keep him from taking the stand. There was no real point to it either, what had happened was obvious, no one was arguing the facts. It was the morbid curiosity of the public that demanded he take the stand. Of course, it wasn't really him back then, but his mother. It was a spectacle to see the murderous boy, speak the words of some old, decrepit, woman. The judge had little sympathy for psychopaths, however, and it was allowed. He doesn't remember the trial. He doesn't remember blaming "the boy," or explaining the details of each and every murder, he doesn't remember the laughs from the crowd that slowly turned into disturbed silence. Then it was over, he was sent away, the crowd got what they wanted, a show, and so much more. They left, more guilt-ridden than entertained, and he was taken away to some place, where they wouldn't have to think about him anymore.

She's so beautiful in the light, but he can see the fear in her eyes. "Some place." That's what they always say. Of course she wouldn't understand. Look at her, she hasn't had an empty moment in her entire life. She's such a stranger to the silence in the room, so uncomfortable with nothing. Some place.

He screamed and fought when he realized where they had taken him. To that some place they always used to talk about, that some place they put you in to forget about you. To judge you, and drug you, until you're nothing but a drooling body in a bed, a name to be catalogued, a case to be studied.

"Do you know where you are?" They'd ask.

"What has he told you? What has that wicked boy told you about me?" Mother would scream. "Nothing but lies, nothing but slander, he's always been such a cruel creature, he should be locked in here, not me! Look at me, I wouldn't even hurt a fly!"

He watches his Mother put on her make-up for the day, sitting beside her at her dresser. He memorizes her routine with exhausting detail. He is young, too young to understand why women put on make-up. When she is not watching he is at her dresser, applying the make-up to himself. Mimicking her movements, he scrapes his neck with his fingertips, brushing his non-existent hair behind his ears. He applies the blush and the eye shadow and the lipstick. He looks vacantly at his own reflection, curious, naïve, and he feels nothing. Mother comes in, appalled by what she sees, she grabs him by his neck, she scratches the make-up off his face with her nails, she beats him and locks him in the closet, and he doesn't even understand why.

You are Norman Bates. She laughs, the boy may look a bit thin and feminine, but you cannot mistake him for me. You are Norman Bates. His father wasn't much to look at either. You are Norman Bates. Of course, he never had a man in his life, and I did my best, but sometimes he does just act off. You are Norman Bates. Why do you keep saying that? Are you trying to drive me mad? You are Norman Bates. Is that what you want? Did he tell you to do this to me? Is this his vengeance? What has he said to you? What has he promised you?

You are Norman Bates.

They had persistence, patience, and time on their side. They had numbers and facts. He had nothing but delusions and fantasies. He could not stand up to the truth for long, but he did his best. He had kept a lie going for a decade, he wasn't about to let it go.

They got clever as he grew weaker. Well, tell us, they'd say, what about your tenth birthday? Do you remember anything from that?

A cake. New toys. Candles. Laughter. Kisses.

I got Norman some new toy cars, and a toy tank for his army men. No, they say, we don't mean Norman's, we mean your own. And she'd have to stop because she didn't know of course, Norman had no idea, so she had no idea.

What about your sixteenth birthday? Where did you go to school? Who was your first boyfriend? Where did your husband propose to you? What sort of dress did you wear? Do you remember what he said?

No, she'd say. You're trying to fool me. You think this is funny? Where is Norman, where is my boy, what have you done with him? Is he here? Show him to me. Show him, please. He can tell you, it's me, he can tell you who I am.

They pressed on like this for weeks, chipping away at the delusion that had kept him alive. Bit by bit, question by question. They brought him family photographs and asked him to name the brothers and the sisters. The aunts and the uncles. But they were all just strangers to him, names without faces from stories he'd scarcely heard about form his Mother. How can you not know your own brother's name, they ask in their cruel way. Weeks like this, bit by bit.

Until finally he cried out from the darkness inside himself.

"Stop!" He screams at them. "You're hurting her!"

They cheered when he said this. They smiled and clapped and patted each other on the back. There you are, Norman, they say, there you are. They reach out to shake his hand but he slaps them away.

"Why are you doing this!" He screams at them. "She's harmless, she's just an old lady, she can't hurt you! No, Mother, please, don't cry, I'm here now."

Norman Bates, it's taken us so long to find you.

"Shut up! How long have you kept her here like this! ? How could you! How could you! Oh, God, Mother. No, stop, don't be afraid, I am here now."

Welcome back.

"I will take you away from here, on my life, I swear, I will take you home."

Don't you see, boy? She cries. They're going to take me away from you!

"No, I won't let them."

He picked up the phone the day he murdered her. Hello, his voice shakes, tears well up in his eyes, please come, there's something wrong with my Mother, she won't wake up. He is eighteen, and she will not open her eyes. He'd forgotten about the poison he put in her tea. He had forgotten the moment he'd done it. She laughed with her boyfriend in her bedroom when he brought it up. They shooed him away as they drank and laughed with each other. There was so much screaming when the ambulance got there. Paramedics shouting orders at one another, searching for a pulse that was long gone. He was crying in the corner, he was praying to anything that would listen.

She was in the coffin when he knelt down and held her hand. I won't let them take you. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He put his arms around her. She pushed her face into his chest. She was smiling.

You are Norman Bates.

He hasn't spoken for three months. The Doctors are obviously disappointed. They were making such good progress. The nurses are ordered to speak to him, to treat him normally. They think this will bring him comfort, but it only makes him cry.

He's got scars on his back from his beatings. Every scar was a lesson and a labor of love. Do you think I enjoy this, she would cry out as blood drained from the scratches on his back and arms. You stupid boy, she'd say in between her tears, pouring salt into the wounds. This is what you get, this is what you get for looking at those damn girls. His knuckles are bruised from the work, the bodies are heavy in his arms.

She scrapes her fingertips on his spine. She grasps his ribs in her gentle hands, putting her lips to his shoulder. Norman, she whispers. I love you. She traces the scars and the open wounds, cleaning them tenderly with water and soap. She kisses them. He winces. I love you so much.

The water drains down the pipes.

Marion Crane must die. He knows this, he understands this, but he does not want to. She must die for his sins, but it's not her fault, he says, she was kind to me, it isn't her fault. Kindness cannot be returned with cruelty, she doesn't have to die like the rest. Just stay here in the parlor with me, just for a little while longer. Let the moments be empty, I will teach you the value of silence. Do not go yet, stay with me, stay with me and keep me here.

But she goes anyway, she is tired, she has a long drive back home in the morning. She has stepped into a trap that she wants to get out of. Oh, he wants to hold her, don't you understand, this is just another trap. She's sitting in the parlor, eating like a bird, and she is beautiful in the light. Beautiful and kind and sad. So terribly sad. It still smells like rain outside, the bitter cold sets in, he can hear his Mother in the back of his head, Marion Crane must die for his perverted thoughts. They talk to fill the silence, but he can hear in the back of his head, Mother already deciding what must be done.

There was so much blood.

And it was strange, when he began to clean up, how easily it all came back to him. What had to be done, what had to be cleaned and how. He doesn't remember all the murders, he mostly forgets them once they're over. Yet there, in that dark room, he remembered the method and routine for cleaning up a body. For a moment he thought it was strange, but that was just for a moment. He gets over the shock and the fear, his hands stop shaking so that he can clean the mess. Clean the mess like he had for his entire life. Wash away the sins and the blood so that Mother won't be taken away.

He's in his bed, curled up in the thin sheets, trying to fight off the cold.

Norman, she whispers.

He turns and sees her, his Mother, wrapping him in her arms. But something's wrong, she is sick, she is small and thin, nothing but bones and withered skin. Her movements are jerky, she forces her limbs to move. Her lips are gone and her eyes are sunken, she is the corpse he grew to love. But her voice calls out through the dark, clear as a bell.

Norman, I'm afraid.

"Why? What's wrong?" He whispers.

We're going to die in this place.

"No. No, of course we're not. Don't talk like that."

They'll kill the both of us. I always knew. I always knew I'd die in a place like this.

"No, Mother. I'll get you out of here. You have to believe me."

Oh, Norman. My beautiful boy. I love you.

"Mother. I love you too. I just wish…"

What, Norman? You can tell me.

"I just wish the girls, Mother. I wish they didn't have to die."

Then there was silence.

"Mother?"

Nothing but the silence and a rotting corpse in his bed.

"No! No! Mother! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Mother!"

He fights against the bed sheets and she is gone.

"I just want you." He cries out. "I've only wanted you."

The paint peels beneath his fingertips. Her lips scrape his neck. She holds him, though her room is cold now. They lived like there was no one else in the world. All she had ever needed was him, she knew that now. All that he would ever need was her, he knew that always. The sun is warm, the birds are singing. This is everything. She holds out her arm to him and he stuffs her bones with saw dust.

Careful now, she reminds him.

He stitches her arm back together, pulling at her slightly.

Ow, she says.

I'm sorry, he says, just be still.

She leans over to him, watching intently as he stitches her arm back together, the very beginnings of the long road ahead of them. She kisses his forehead. You're so skilled at this, Norman, she says. Will I be as beautiful as one of your birds? Mother, you are already more beautiful than any bird.

Another therapy session is filled with tears and screaming. His resolve is nearly gone, but he fights on, he can't let them take her away. She scratches within his rib cage, she claws at his bones, crying into his blood. She's dying and there's nothing he can do. The Doctors surround him, watching him as he cries into his arms. He looks to his Mother, sitting beside him. Her missing eyes turn to him.

Kill them, Norman.

He stares at her through his tears.

It's the only way to get them to stop.

Slowly, he shakes his head.

"Norman, please, listen to us. You know your mother's dead, she been dead for over a decade. The person you're speaking to isn't your real mother."

Kill them.

"She's just a collection of memories, a delusion, she's a poor substitute for a mother."

Kill them.

"She may be there, Norman, she may seem real, but whatever you're seeing, it isn't your mother. It's just you, another piece of you."

The lifeless corpse stares at him, her missing eyes sinking deep into him. He knows what must be done, but he shakes his head.

"No." He tells her. "Not anymore. We can't keep doing this."

Norman! Kill them!

"No more people have to die because of us."

Norman! It's them or us! It's them or me!

"No more blood."

Foolish boy, you can't do anything right!

She screams and leaps out of her chair, she grabs the nearest Doctor by the neck. They tumble over a glass table, breaking it into pieces. The others scramble, trying to pull her away. But she grabs at his throat, she won't let go, they all have to die. But Norman screams at her to stop. This isn't right, they won't hurt her if she just listens to them. He pulls his Mother away. He crawls on the floor as the Doctors pull their colleague away.

"You damn boy!" He cries at the top of his lungs. "You damn, gutless, foolish boy! Mother, please – No! Don't 'Mother, please,' me! You're letting them do this to us!"

He crawls away from them, to the broken glass all over the floor.

"You wicked boy, you know you need me! You can't do a damn thing by yourself, you can't even breath unless I tell you to!"

He grabs the largest shard he can find.

"Norman? What are you doing! Put that thing away! No!"

He stabs himself in the arm. He cries out in pain, the blood gushing from his wounds.

"Norman, no! Please! Stop!"

He pulls the shard from his arm, stabbing himself again. Then again. Then again.

"Get away from me, Norman…"

He stabs himself in the leg, in the side. The pain screams louder than his Mother can.

"Norman…"

He is bleeding all over the floor now, weakly trying to pull the shard from his side. But he's bleeding from his hands too and the glass slips with the blood. He can't hear her now, over the pain. More scars scratch into his skin. She is silent and still now.

He left his bed in the medical ward, not entirely understanding where he was, only that he had to leave. He felt the blood drip from his fingertips, every step hurt, but he knew, he had to leave. For his own sake, for his Mother's, for everyone's.

The morning sun shines through the windows and onto his face. He's been given new stitches overnight, and now he's got restraints on his wrists and ankles. The sun is warm but there are no birds. He thinks to himself, coming into the waking world, this must be what like dying feels like. Every breath was a labor, every heartbeat a disappointment. It was only right, he thought to himself, that he should suffer and die so slowly, after all he had done. He pulls at his restraints, understanding that he has to get out of that bed. He must escape. He pulls and pulls but it is useless, but he is stubborn, stubborn like his mother, he pulls at them more, up until a gentle hand clamps his own.

He suddenly relaxes, calmed by the familiar touch.

"Mother…"

He smiles as another hand touches his forehead, wiping the hair from his eyes.

"No, Norman." The voice says.

He looks up and sees her. Marion Crane. He is petrified by her, he doesn't move even as she comes to lay down beside him on his bed. She turns to her side, staring at him with her piercing eyes. He is too terrified of her to speak or move or to fight. But she seems benevolent, smiling slightly as she strokes his hair, scraping his ear.

"Hello." She finally says.

"…Hi." He forces himself to say.

She touches his wounds, gently, lovingly. Then suddenly, they don't hurt anymore. He looks at her, skeptical of her healing touch.

She tip-toes her fingertips up his arm, to his face, where she strokes his hair. Suddenly, his breathing steadies, he is calm now. He works up the strength, and begins to mimic her, as he did his Mother years ago. He strokes her hair, scraping his fingertips on her arms, as she does to his. She smiles, affirming his efforts. She touches his cheeks, he touches her. She touches his lips, he touches hers.

"Is this what an empty moment feels like?" She asks.

He shakes his head.

"This is…anything but empty." He tells her.

Slowly, unsure of what he was actually doing, he leans down and kisses her. He looks down at her, afraid she'll disapprove, but she smiles at him. He laughs, he can't help it.

"How do you feel?" She asks him.

"Sick. I think I'm dying."

"There are doctors here to help you."

"No." He shakes his head. "They're killing me, Marion."

"No, Norman. They're trying to save you. It's your mother who is killing you."

He stares at her, somehow knowing that she is right. Somewhere, deep inside him, he can hear his Mother calling out to him.

"No." He denies her. "No, you're wrong. They're trying to take her away, Marion. She needs me, I have to protect her."

"You've done all you can, you know that. You can't go on like this."

"I have to! Marion, help me, please, undo my restraints. I have to get her out of here. I have to go home. It's the only place she's safe."

"Norman, she's dead."

"No, no, no, she's here! Right here, she's right here, in me."

He pulls at his restraints, trying to point to his own heart. Marion puts her hand to his chest.

"Like an infection that is spreading through you. Like a cancer. You've kept her alive, but you can't do it anymore, Norman."

"I have to protect her."

"She's your mother, she should be protecting you."

He looks at her, and her eyes break his heart. Mother is screaming. She's angry and she's afraid, and she screaming inside him. She scratches at his insides, his chest hurts as her voice breaks him into pieces.

"You can't keep living for the dead." She says. "They are gone, but you are still here, and you are alive."

"Don't fill him with lies!" His Mother screams with his voice.

He thrashes at the restraints, Mother is screaming. He turns from Marion, she grabs his face, forcing him to look at her.

"You whore, you God damned whore!" He screams at her.

"Norman." She says in her soothing way.

"You want her, Norman? You want a dirty little whore, lost in the rain?"

He tries to turn away, but Marion holds his face in place, staring at him. He tears up looking at her.

"You thought you could silence me, boy? You thought a silly piece of glass could stop me?"

"Norman." She says.

"Mother, please." He cries. "I'm so tired now."

He shuts his eyes. Carry me to bed, up the creaky stairs, the moonlight shines through the window. She brings him to her bed.

"Norman, look at me."

He plays with her hair, watching her sleep. He feels her breath on his forehead. And it is warm. And it is safe.

"Norman."

Peeling paint, bodies in the swamp, blood on his hands. He's cutting holes in the wall. It's raining that night. Mother hums a lullaby. He poisons her.

"Norman, look at me!"

He opens his eyes and sees Marion Crane, staring down into his soul.

"Stay with me. Stay here. In this room, right now."

"It's so much easier at home…"

"I know, but look at me. This is how you'll end this. This is you, Norman Bates, fighting for your life, right here, right now, with me."

"My life?"

"Yes."

Mother's crying and he doesn't know why. He can hear the water from the shower. The light from beneath the door.

"This is the most important thing you've ever done, Norman. You can do this. I know you can. Because you don't know it, but you've been fighting your whole life. Where other people would have broken, you carried on, you picked up the pieces of what you had and did the best you could."

"I promised. I promised I wouldn't let anyone take her away. I need her."

"You don't need her."

"I do."

"You think you're weak, but you are strong. You are so much stronger than you think you are. It's her, she needs you. Without you, she'd be dead. Without you, she'd be nothing. This is it, Norman, she's gotten greedy, she' s taken too much of you, you have to let her go."

His tears fall across her hands, she keeps him still, staring at him.

"This is it, but I know, I know you will prevail."

He has the knife in his hand. He opens the door and creeps into the bathroom. He sees her. He raises the knife.

He killed his Mother over a decade ago, stole her body, and patched it up as best as he could. He spoke for the body, he made her real again.

"What's your name?" Marion asks.

"…Norman Bates."

"Say it. Say I am…"

"I am Norman Bates."

"Yes. That's right."

"My mother is dead."

"Yes."

His voice shakes, he's afraid, he isn't sure why, but he is. He waits for his Mother to scream at him, for his voice to rise up from his chest, for that familiar creeping sensation of her presence. He waited for the darkness to come, for him to sleep and wake up with blood on his hands. But he stared at Marion, and the sensation never came. Mother was silent.

He cries, leaning down into Marion, kissing her. He pushes his face into her neck, weeping into her shoulder. He sheds tears he should have shed a decade ago, he finally mourns his Mother. Marion holds him, keeps him steady. Until finally, after a long while, he pulls away and looks at her.

"But you…?" He looks at her. "I killed you."

She smiles and nods. He turns away.

"It's just me, then." He says. "Only me."

"Yes."

She turns his face back to hers.

"You needed me." She says.

He looks at her, yes, he supposes he did. Suddenly, abruptly she sits up. He looks at her, not wanting her to go. She looks back down at him.

He can already hear the rain.

"You have a vacancy?" She asks.

"We have twelve." He tells her. "Twelve cabins, twelve vacancies. They moved the way of the highway."

"I thought I'd gotten off the main road…"

"I knew you must have. No one stops here anymore unless they do. But it's not good dwelling our losses, is it. We go right head lighting the lights, and following the formalities."

He places the registration book on the counter between them.

"Sign, please. Your home address. Or just the town will do."

"Phoenix."

He looks at her, that's not how it's supposed to go, but she looks up and smiles. He smiles too. He turns and reaches for a key to a cabin.

"Cabin 1, please." She asks.

He turns to her.

"It's closer in case I want anything." She says.

"Right next to the office." He nods. "I'll get your bags."

"I don't have any."

He smiles at her, walking out towards the cabin, she follows him. He opens the door for her and they enter.

"Stuffy in here." He says.

"Is the mattress soft?" She asks.

"Yes."

"Are there hangers in the closet?"

"Yes, and there's stationary with 'Bates' Motel' printed on it in case you want to make your friends back home envious."

She stands beside him, looking at him. They don't have to say anymore, they've said it a thousand times already. Yet, they press on.

"And over there…" She gestures.

"Is the bathroom." He nods.

"Thank you, Mr. Bates."

"Norman."

"Norman."

She presses up against him, and he does what they should have done that rainy night. He leans down and kisses her. Softly, gently, lovingly. All it took was a bit of sympathy, compassion, a little bit of kindness. She was the only one to do that, the only one kind enough to sit with him in his parlor, filling up the time, eating like a bird.

She leads him to the bed where he kisses her and holds her and loves her.

She stays with him for the next couple weeks. Long enough for the wounds to heal and the stitches to be removed. She fills the silence that Mother's absence would have left. She's there in the bed as he heals. She sits beside him in the sitting area. She's beside him in his therapy sessions. She sleeps with him in his bed. She holds him when he cries, and reassures him that there is more for him to do, that this is not his end, he will not die in this institution alone. This isn't just another cage, this isn't another trap.

She was gone the next morning, but he was not surprised. It took him a couple of years before he really understood the layout of the institution. The Doctors were more than pleased with his progress, good behavior allowed him outdoor privileges, he worked with the nurses on the standard chores, he made friends. They got him a bird for his thirty-fifth birthday. Every so often a professor or a psychology student would come by and want to talk to him about his experiences. A Doctor every now and then would muse about his possible release in the distant and not-so-distant future, but he always laughs at such thoughts. Why would I ever want to leave, he asks.

Every so often there was an empty moment, where he listened to the silence within his own mind, where there was no other being, no other voice whispering off in the dark. It was only him.


End file.
